Congratulations to the Cincinnati Reds, who decided to talk to Barry Larkin and not at him. It doesn't matter how the Reds and their shortstop reunited, only that they did. The club walked through a minefield last week, but only blew off a toe. The patient is still in pain. At least it's not life threatening.

The rest is up to Barry.

It's time for him to be the "icon" here that he thinks he is. If ever a team needed a smiling face for the cover of its image, it's the Cincinnati Reds. When it comes to the PR dance, the club is not Fred Astaire. The Reds lost 93 games in the debut summer of a new ballpark. They took lots of your money and didn't spend much of theirs. You spent the honeymoon filing for divorce.

Now that he is a lifetime Red, with front office aspirations, Larkin needs to put some of his politician's charm to work. He needs to haul out the appeal and grace he used to win hearts and minds last week: The carefully chosen, thoughtful words, the public appearances, the well-aimed TV bites.

When he chooses to be, there is no one more appealing than Barry Louis Larkin. He needs to choose to be appealing more often, not just when it benefits him.

Unlike the Bengals, the Reds are not prominent in the community. They aren't around. Ickey Woods shows up on Fountain Square, Joe Walter hosts a charity golf tournament, Doug Pelfrey raises money for kids, Mike Martin is trail blazing at Taft. Anthony Munoz is a saint among men.

The Reds are . . . in

Florida.

Larkin could start by doing something he probably will never do: Move back here.

There are five sports icons in this town: Munoz, Oscar Robertson, Joe Nuxhall, Johnny Bench and Pete Rose. Four of the five have one thing in common: They live here. Larkin lives in Orlando. Icons don't live in Orlando, unless they're named Mickey. Isleworth, the gated tract of million-dollar homes where Larkin lives, is not a Cincinnati suburb.

That won't happen. His Amberley Village home is about to be sold for close to $2 million, according to Larkin's brother and financial advisor, Byron, after a three-year stay on the market. But Larkin ought to be here more in the offseason than he is.

Why couldn't he have a golf tournament, adopt a local charity, donate $1 million to Children's Hospital, speak at a high school sports stag, or take a few trips on the Reds Caravan?

Why shouldn't he cut radio ads and TV spots? He should be on billboards. He should be kissing babies and opening UDFs.

Being an icon means more than just playing ball here. It means being around. And showing up. You can't be too good to show up, not if you're serious about being an icon.

This is a small place, with all that implies, good and bad. It can be claustrophobic for sports stars who don't embrace it. It can also be nurturing and warm for those who do. Ask Boomer Esiason.

We want to love our athletes here. We take them personally. We want them to be one of us. But they better give us reason. Off the field, Larkin has never done that.

It's time for him to start. For the good of all concerned. Love is a two-way street.

E-mail pdaugherty@enquirer.com

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